


Five Near Misses, One House Afire

by Gryphonrhi



Series: Advent Amnesty Stories [11]
Category: Highlander (Movies), Highlander: The Series, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon Typical Violence, Community: crossovers100, Crossover, Gen, people person might be an understatement on these two, this will be finished
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:34:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27835342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryphonrhi/pseuds/Gryphonrhi
Summary: They're both from the East Coast, both working out the balances between fighting and healing, and both people persons.  Getting them in one place at one time should not be this complicated -- right?Note well:Warnings have changed because chapter four deals with injuries after the Battle of Manhattan in the first Avengers movie.
Series: Advent Amnesty Stories [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/597790
Comments: 84
Kudos: 53





	1. Near Miss #1:  Philadelphia, 1996 (Marc’s 26, Sam’s 18-9)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [samjohnsson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samjohnsson/gifts).



"Don’t be a wimp, Wilson! The night's still young—"

Sam just laughed at his cousin's wheedling. "You know I'm still gonna wake up at 05:00 thinking I have to go run, and guess what? I'm gonna get up and go run. So it’s not that damn young. And? It's raining, Tina. Did you miss--" Sam shut up abruptly, his head swiveling from side to side as he tried to take in where he'd heard that sharp huff of air.

Tina drew breath to say something and Sam automatically put up a fist, a sharp move that silenced her and that he'd have to apologize for much later. His cousin didn’t know it was a drilled-in combat signal; she probably took it as a threat. Then Sam heard pebbles shift on asphalt off to their 4:00, and he knew which way to go. He took off at a run despite knowing already that there probably wasn't jack or shit he could do except try to catch some murdering bastard.

Damn it. He hadn't wanted to be right about this, but yeah, there was a man up ahead, one arm cocked at an angle and the other holding up a guy sagging to the ground. The killer turned abruptly – must have heard Sam's boots on the pavement – and pulled a long-ass blade out of his victim's back as he did.

Tina yelled -- screamed really -- about "Sam! Knife! Hey, anyone, HELP!"

Later, Sam decided she'd probably saved both their lives when she made all that noise, because she was still back at the mouth of the little alley of a side street; Tina was a lot of good things but she'd never been a runner and never wanted to be. The killer looked at her, looked back at Sam, and Sam could just about _see_ the guy decide he couldn't get both of them. Not fast enough anyway, not with Tina screaming like that and three bars inside a block’s radius. The guy turned and ran instead, and God damn him, the fucker was fast.

Sam knew by the time he got to the victim that he was outclassed by that sprint. He let the bastard go and dropped to his knees to try and help.

Blood was pulsing out of the knife wound, dark and steady and too fucking much. Sam yanked off his cap and shoved it against the wound, already talking to the guy about, "Come on, try to stay with me. We're gonna have help soon, just stay with me."

The victim was a little lighter-skinned than he was, wide shoulders under Sam’s grip, long legs collapsed under him… and his skin was paling already. Damn it. Sam watched as the guy tried to say something, hand coming up and wrapping tightly around Sam's arm before his face went slack. Then the eyes were empty, and he was just gone.

Damn it, damn it, _damn_ it.

The bartenders at Mick's Place remembered Sam and promptly alibied him to the police. It never hurt to be on a bartender's good side, Sam reminded himself as he kept talking to the senior homicide detective who’d shown up. He got through the questions, got the official reminder from the cops not to run into a crime but also got the nod that meant they understood why he'd done it. He made the appointment to come in and see a sketch artist, got his cousin cleared, and the both of them made it home, finally, at almost two in the morning.

Explaining to his aunt why they'd come in so late lasted 'til three, not helped by all the red in the water when the first things Sam did were wash his hands and then put his hat in to soak out the blood. He got up and ran at five anyway, because it beat not sleeping and Sam was already working on his stats and qualifiers to go pararescue if he could, maybe be able to save the next guy like he couldn't save this one…

The newspapers that afternoon had the poor guy's death on the front of the local section – Marc Scipio, a recently certified architect. Of all the fucking luck, the man made it through college, made it into a job in a field that tight, and then got killed for going to a pool hall?

Sam was working with a police sketch artist when he heard the guy's body had vanished from the morgue. He rubbed his face with his hands, nodded when the artist suggested maybe he could forget he'd heard that so the cops could save it for when they caught the perp, and went back to his aunt's house to shower and shave before he went to offer his condolences to the family. He hadn't been fast enough, and he hadn't known there was a problem until it was way too late, but Sam went and offered his apologies anyway. His parents would have expected it of him, and if it had been one of his sisters, he'd have appreciated it.

After Sam made it into the PJ program, when they were far enough along that the medics started talking to the classes about, "You can't save them all," he just nodded. He’d already known it. That leave home had only cemented it.


	2. Near Miss # 2:  Geneva, 2006 (Marc’s 35, Sam’s 27-8)

Marc lined up the angles in his head, careful of the eight ball, pulled back his stick, and put just enough English on the cue ball to curve the fourteen in a lazy arc to the middle pocket. Beside him, his cousin started laughing and ran a hand through curls as dark and thick as Marc's own.

"Alex said I shouldn't bet you on anything involving angles."

Marc tilted his head. "So why did you?" He shifted around the pool table, eyeing the cue ball's new position relative to the eleven and the fifteen balls. The eleven would be trickier, but if he cleared it now, he could run the table before Jake got a shot in.

"Because you need your shoulders unknotted." Jake shrugged and drained the last of his ale. "You've been in the family a while, but you don't know me that well yet." His smile was wicked as he added, "You will by the time I finish cursing you out over this game."

"Hey, you ignored your teacher’s warning, not me." Marc took the next shot, sank the eleven by bouncing it off Jake’s seven, which gave him more room and got another groaning laugh from his cousin, and shifted around the table again.

On this circuit, he had to dodge the two guys in civvies. One quick glance catalogued them as military on leave (the haircuts and set of the shoulders were easy markers) and gregarious as hell from the smiles. The long, lanky blond guy grinned and said, "He had to bet you for you to take a shoulder rub? Man, you really need to relax more."

Marc grinned back at him. "I'm relaxing just fine. _I_ am on vacation, thanks. No papers, no texts, just beer, wine, pool halls, hell-raising, and relatives to keep me out of jail. Oh, and apparently I get a backrub later. I'm good." He considered his next shot and waved an absent thank you when the guys moved out of his way. "Right. Jake, thirteen in the top right pocket."

Jake looked at the table, at the layout of the balls, and laughed. "Oh, yeah. Better I lose twenty now than gods know how much over this next week. This is the thanks I get for good play seats?" 

“Hey, you got us the balcony seats? Cool!” Marc sank the thirteen ball, moved down the table to sink the fifteen -- not so incidentally crowding Jake's balls into a tighter grouping -- and looked up when someone put a twenty on the table rail. "Yeah, no, sorry. Just catching back up with a cousin. Not here to keep taking games, thanks."

The blond guy grinned at him. "Why not? Sam can get his ass kicked, too; your cousin and I can laugh at both of you and learn a few things. Win/win situation. Why not?"

Marc blinked at that and reconsidered. "Well, hell, if you're going to be civilized about it... Jake, when do we have to meet Shamil for dinner?"

"Six-fifteen. Curtain goes up at eight." Jake turned to the military guys. "Jake Falstaff. My cousin, Marc Scipio. You two are?"

The tall, tan blond said, "Riley Martin. My wingman, Sam Wilson." Sam was darker than Marc, barely, and kept his hair as close-cropped as Marc did in the summers. He lifted his hand, beer in it half-drained by now, and grinned easily back at Jake as Riley finished, "And he's the one of us with a chance of winning, so he's up next."

Marc laughed at that. "Hey, for a good game, we can stick around for one more. We're walking to dinner, but we can always jog if I run us a little late. Nice to meet you, guys. Jake, are you going to insist I call the eight ball, too?"

"Hell, yes." Jake laughed. "And then you play Sam so I can actually watch without wincing. It’s that or I tell my sisters how much of a shark you really are."

"Hey, what happens in Geneva stays in Geneva, thanks. If you disagree, take it up with Portia and I’ll be the one standing out of the way. Right. Eight ball in the bottom right pocket," Marc said. He straightened up as the ball pocked into the socket and grinned at Jake. "Put the twenty towards my play ticket, or better yet, towards another drink I'll like."

Jake shrugged, light bouncing off sharp cheekbones, and said, "Did you like the last one?"

"Yup, but why try only one?"

Jake grinned. "I’ll find you something. Sam, Riley, am I grabbing anything for you two?"

They traded glances, an entire conversation in lift of eyebrow, tilt of head, and shift of mouth. Sam pulled out cash and handed it to Jake. "Sure, thanks. I like the hard ciders; Riley likes his beer dark and smooth. Stouts and porters, mostly." 

"I can work with that." Jake nodded to them and headed to the bar through a crowd getting thicker as more and more people got off work.

Sam and Riley were both rolling balls to Marc to rack up. Marc tracked them lazily through peripheral vision and placed them with both hands working fast and independently just for the practice. Besides, they already knew he could play. No point hiding the skills now, especially since he was leaving after this game.

Sam was laughing. “Oh, yeah. This is gonna be a learning experience.”

“Yeah, but a cheap one. You paid the table fee; I’m happy.” Marc grinned at him. “Who flips to go first?”

Sam shrugged. “I flip, you call?”

“Sure.” Marc waited until the coin was in the air to call, “Heads.”

Sam uncovered it and showed off the eagle. Marc shrugged and stepped back a pace. “All yours, man.”

“Familiar accent, by the way,” Sam mentioned as he set up his shot to break the balls. “Where on the coast? I’m from Harlem.”

Marc looked up at that. “Hey, small world. Philly, here.”

Riley groaned. “No rivalries, please.”

Marc laughed. “Hell, no. Now, if you want to know where to get the good food in Philly, just say.”

“Doubt we’ll get back there soon,” Sam commented. He finished looking over the table and said, “I’ll take solids.” He shifted around and sank the two.

Marc shrugged and nodded. “Yeah, I get that. Mind if I ask which service?” He kept his voice quiet enough not to carry past the table as he went on, “Sheer curiosity, honest. I’m stuck between army and air force, is all.”

Riley raised an eyebrow and matched his volume. “Well, thank God you didn’t call us marines, at least.”

Marc grinned at him. “I work set-up at a Marine bar out from Fort Lewis and McChord AFB. You guys are not from either sea-going service, that I know.” He went back to studying how Sam was moving. “But I’m starting to lean Air Force and some kind of actual air service.”

Sam shifted and put a backspin on the five that sank it as neatly as the two. “Okay, seriously, a Marine bar and you can tell that?”

Marc shrugged. “Martial arts training, actually. I’ve been learning to watch how people move, and Joe’s place gives me a lot of chances to practice. Sorry, Sam. I’ll drop it.”

Riley shrugged. “Nah, just keep it relatively quiet and you’re good. We’re not always welcome some places, even out of uniform. Seriously, your family’s in Philly and you’re working bar in Washington state?”

“Grad school,” Marc said succinctly.

Sam nodded and then cursed softly when the six-ball rebounded too hard and sank the ten instead of his own shot. “Oh, well.” He grinned. “And now I get to watch my own slaughter. We’re AF. Both PJs, if that tells you anything.”

“And if it doesn’t, maybe I was full of crap?” Marc shook his head. “Yeah. Tells me plenty. Congrats, guys. That program has one hell of a wash-out rate.” He put his attention on the table to let them relax again, calculating angles to sink striped balls while dodging or impeding solids. Last summer’s croquet games had been a lot of fun. “Nice to meet you.”

Jake brought the bottles back over and handed them around, giving Riley the change since Sam was following Marc to watch him line up the shots. “Here you go. Marco, we need to head out in no more than ten.”

Marc laughed. “And five would be better? I do get to drink that, remember. And I’m working on it.” He glanced up at Sam, a considering look. “I could let Riley take over if we’re still going.”

Sam snorted. “Don’t play nice on my account, Marc. I came to watch you shark, thanks. And your cousin here missed the first few.”

Marc took his beer, sipped, and groaned. “And I don’t have time to savor this.” He looked at the label, made a mental note of the brand, and nodded. “Right again, Jake.”

Jake shrugged. “Take the ten minutes, Marco. Riley, want me to show you a stretch for your shoulders? You’re doing something to overstrain the lats, both of you.”

Riley raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. Mind if I ask your qualifications?”

Jake pulled out his wallet, then pulled out a business card and handed it over. “Osteopath. Bone alignment literally my specialty, and I’m not asking, but you could use this.”

Sam snorted. “Osteopath wants to realign us? Go see what he’s got, Riley. Marc can kick my ass without you watching it.” He waved Riley off and asked, “So what play? Is it in English?”

“Nope, this production’s in Italian. When it’s in English, title is _Where The Night Fell_.’” Marc shifted around again to take out the fifteen-ball. “Do you know the play, _The Bacchae_?”

“All I know about it is it’s Greek and I haven’t read it.” Sam winced when Marc shifted on one foot, set up his shot, and spun the fourteen around his three-ball; it dropped neatly into the top right pocket.

“Ah, okay.” Marc studied the positions of the remaining balls, muttering about, “Knew I needed to pull that just a bit… Okay. _The Bacchae_ is about Dionysus – god of wine and divine madness, let me point out now – showing up in Thebes and being more than a little annoyed that people in his mother’s home city are saying his mother, a princess of the city, lied about his parentage. Then they make the mistake of refusing to recognize him as a god, much less worship him.”

Marc paused and breathed out before bouncing the cue ball off the nine and managing to sink it while moving the one further into the scrum of solids. “So, Dionysus comes in with his worshippers and lures the women out to follow him, starting with the king’s mother and aunts. From the descriptions, his worshippers were in full wine- or other hallucinogenic-madness, including adrenaline-fueled strength, and it just… did not end up well for Pentheus, the king who’d dissed Dionysus. Who, by the way, is Dionysus’ cousin, but gods seem to be exempt from kin-slaughter rules. Unlike everyone _else_ in Greek stories.”

In the other room, Jake started laughing, which made Riley bitch about, “Quit moving when you’re showing me this.”

Marc shifted to take the twelve out, a much easier shot. “So _The Bacchae_ ends up with the king being slaughtered by his own mother and the other women, then his mom’s banished from the city and what’s left of the royal line is cursed. Like I said, kin-slaughter rules only seem to apply to mortals. But where _The Bacchae_ is about the royal family’s reaction to Dionysus’ arrival, _Where The Night Fell_ is about the reaction of the rest of the city. How they live with it after divine madness takes over a city that’s been too orderly and too regimented and how they handle their royal line suddenly being short both the current king and the previous one, who just got exiled. So, you know, order and chaos, repression and expression. How people really react to stresses.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? Okay, that sounds like it could actually be good. Or a complete disaster.”

Jake called, “There’s an angry god involved, Sam. That rarely ends well.”

Sam laughed and called back, “I meant the play. Hell, living through a pissed-off god, a good third of the city abandoning ship for a while, and then regime change? Yeah, that’s a disaster.”

Marc shrugged, then leaned in and bounced the eleven into a pocket and moved to get the thirteen. “Disaster actually comes from the Greek for unfavorable stars, you know. Anyway, I liked _Night_ when I read it. I might just love it by the time the actors are done. Hoping so, anyway.”

Sam looked at the table, shook his head, and said, “Yeah, did not expect this. You shark pool _and_ debate the moral structures of plays?”

Marc looked up and grinned. “You didn’t ask grad studies in what, Sam. Eight ball, bottom left pocket.”

“Uh-huh. Okay, spill. What, philosophy?” Sam watched, more amused than resigned by his slaughter, as Marc lined up a triple bounce for the eight ball. “I did say I wanted to watch you work, but wow.”

Marc inhaled, exhaled, spun the eight into the pocket he’d called, and said cheerfully, “So you did. And much worse than philosophy: I’m a psychology major, ABD.”

Jake came back in and said, “Marc: Dinner. Sam, Riley, nice to meet you.” He looked at the pool table and winced in sympathy. “Well, you heard me repeat Alex’s advice; I guess you knew what you were getting into.”

That, Sam laughed at. Riley feinted a punch at his shoulder and grinned when Jake just swayed further out of reach. Sam raised an eyebrow at him and got a quick raise of eyebrows with the grin still firmly in place. Riley waved them off, saying, “Yeah, yeah. Go enjoy dinner and your play, guys. Thanks, Jake.”

“Anytime.” 

Marc fell into step next to Jake, stretching his legs to catch up even if his cousin was shorter. They were already arguing about where Dionysus was actually from before the door even closed behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Osteopaths are doctors who specialize in bone and muscle alignment. In my part of the US, they're not common, but we had some good ones.
> 
> ABD: All But Dissertation. Almost done with a Ph.D.
> 
>  _The Bacchae_ is a play by Euripides. _Where The Night Fell_ is one of Jake's works, doesn't exist, and is of interest to Marc a) because his cousin wrote it and b) because Marc specializes in helping with trauma. So many immortals have so much. And yes, the washout rate on Air Force Pararescue Jumpers is very high. (High enough that I'm amazed the EXO project in the MCU could get a dozen of them assigned to it.)


	3. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 2011 (Marc’s 41, Sam’s 33-4)

"Now, see, if a rug's off the ground, I'm pretty sure it's supposed to be flying, not eating people."

Marc could feel the change in air pressure as a door was opened in front of him. He stepped through, feeling his way with the easy half-circle steps Aidan had spent months training into him. He was also paying attention to the sounds and shifts of air around him, a knack he'd acquired through a few months' intensive study with one of his cousins on Connor’s side of the family. "We are not having any rug-urgitation jokes when I come out from under this thing, okay?"

"Hell, I was gonna ask about rugged good looks, but yours wins." His new friend took the front of the rolled-up carpet and Marc grinned. "So? Where to?"

"Four doors up on the right. Almost there. Thanks, man." Marc passed up his office key when they got there.

"Dr. Scipio, huh? You make it through a Ph.D. or an M.D?"

"B.A., M.A., and Ph.D. I didn't mind the reading, the writing, or the research, but man, I got tired of arguing about being able to put things in English," Marc groused. "Right, here on the ground is fine."

"What'd you put in English?" The guy in front of him was shorter than Marc – most people were – a little darker-skinned, and much shorter hair, which was also not a surprise in a VA office. But he had a face used to smiling and bright, interested eyes.

Marc grinned back at him. "Damn near all of it. The whole diss. We just had a few advisor meetings where I put it all in Greek and Latin to prove I _could_." He added thoughtfully, "Actually, the real fun was when I started holding my part of one conversation in Greek. All of it, not just the psych terms. Thirty minutes of that and my advisor finally gave up and started laughing. Good thing she didn’t know it was modern Greek, not classical; she might still have argued with me."

"Damn. What were you gonna do if they insisted on you putting it back in?"

Marc shrugged and moved the last box of books up onto his desk to start unrolling the rug. Just that little bit wider than he had space for, damn it. He’d been afraid of that. "Go spend an afternoon at a friend’s bar with a red pen and an alternating stream of coffee and hard cider to put all the Greek and Latin terms back in. But I wanted the damn thing easily comprehensible. Can you get that last bit of rug down while I tilt the couch up?"

"Sure. So, I'm thinking if you'd hold that fight, you're not gonna care that you're not really supposed to have your own furnishings in here?"

Marc looked up at him. "I’ve had patients who don't cope well when their shoes come down too hard on concrete. Institutional carpet doesn’t help enough, either. So, no, I don't care, and I'll explain that as needed."

His new friend nodded sharply. “Good.” He straightened up from adjusting the rug and held out a hand. “Sam Wilson. Anyone talk to you about smells _not_ to have in your office, Doc?”

Marc shook hands and offered a ‘double slap, fist bump’ dap that brought back that grin. “Some of my cousins did, yeah, but I’ll buy the coffee if you’ll trade me your current list. No names, of course. And make it Marc, why don’t you?”

“Sounds good, Marc. I’ll buy the second round to get the ones you’ve run into.” Sam shrugged at the inquiring look. “I run group sessions with the PTSD and addiction programs. Don’t know if you’ve had vets before as patients, but I’d be an idiot not to talk to a guy who’s been here doing this.”

Marc laughed. “I did my internship at the Seattle VA, just outside Joint Base Lewis-McChord – God, I am still having trouble getting used to that – and Fairchild Air Force Base. Learning all the VA and military acronyms was part of the justification I used to _not_ use Greek and Latin, too.”

“Great. Because, no complaints here, but you don’t carry yourself like military. Knowing the shorthand will help.” Sam glanced around to see what still needed to be done, but Marc shook his head and waved him toward the door.

Marc shrugged. “Know the terms, know the hand signals, and spent my college career doing bar set up at a place owned by a former Marine. No worries. It’s my job to work out rapport with them; I’ll manage. So? What’s on your list? Mine includes frankincense, of all the damn things – had a guy who’d grown up old line Greek Orthodox, and they use it for funerals.”

“Please God, don’t let anyone have a problem with coffee,” Sam sighed. “Again.”

“Oh God, yes.” Marc crossed himself, too, still wincing at the thought, and asked, “Speaking of, where’s the closest decent coffee?” he considered and added, “And the closest ‘yes, really, NOW’ coffee or tea?”

Sam started giving him the useful data, and introducing people, and Marc started making mental notes. His last few boxes of books, cushions, and worry stones could wait while he got intel and made a new friend.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> McChord Air Force Base and (Army) Fort Lewis had combined less than two years before this; damn right, Marc's still wrapping his mind around that!


	4. Manhattan, three hours after the Chitauri died, 2012

"I need a medic over here right now."

There was no panic in the request, but the guy had pitched his voice to carry across the scrape of rubble, the occasional barks of search and rescue dogs, and the constant chatter of emergency personnel communicating priorities. He also had a calm, controlled 'I am not fucking around' tone that Sam knew from any number of the PJs and EMTs he'd worked and trained with.

Sam called, "Medic incoming!" and hefted his box. Partially depleted paramedic kit was still lighter than full PJ kit plus battle rattle, and Sam jogged over, dodging people and obstacles almost absently. Two National Guardsmen had turned to look, then turned back quickly; the corporal snapped, "Make a hole, people!"

Sam set his kit down, already snapping it open by the woman with the blood-covered jeans. The guy who'd called was kneeling next to her, holding a reddening cloth firmly against her leg. He was also holding her gaze with his own and saying, "Come on, Kaya. Watch my eyes and breathe with me. Nice and slow, all the way in and down, hold it. All the way out again, hold it if you’re not gonna cough. Nice and slow. We're right here. We've got you."

Sam decided to let the guy with her handle the emotional side; he was keeping her nicely calm, all things considered. Good. Gave him time for a fast triage. "Hey, Kaya, I'm Sam. I'm thinking your day has not stopped sucking even with the aliens dead, huh?"

Kaya managed a smile at that, thin and tight, but there. "Hey, I got two good-looking guys' full attention. Could be worse, I guess?"

Rasp in her voice sounded like she'd either been sick or inhaled too much rubble dust. Her pulse was throbbing in her throat, fast and prominent, so blood pressure was up, probably fear and pain both. Sam smiled at her, eyes flicking over her quickly as he looked for any wounds besides the obvious. Hands were bloody and dusty, but still working, arms, neck looked okay, no blood on her head, pupils the same size…. "Sure it could, but let's try and make it a little better. You got any idea what happened?"

"Had a piece of something in my leg, was waiting on a medic – I was still stable, you know?" She tried to stifle a cough, but her lungs weren't in agreement with that plan. She doubled over with the force of it; their helper's hands tightened on her leg almost before she moved. Her legs had moved with the rest of her, and the cough turned into a shout. "Fuck! Then I did that and it started bleeding a lot more."

The bandage was soaking through way too fast, damn it. Sam nodded, keeping his voice calm and reassuring and hoping she didn't know how much trouble she might be in. No one was shooting at them, so this wasn’t even close to his worst conditions for field surgery and that leg couldn’t wait to get her anywhere else. 

"We're gonna fix this right here and now, then." Without looking up, he called, "Corporal, I need a person-worth of flat space with a space blanket on it, and I need it five minutes ago."

"On it!"

The guy next to her said quietly, "I got pressure on the wound about fifteen seconds after she yelped the first time, Sam. Metal is still in there, but it's subsurface now. You want a tourniquet, grab my belt."

"Keep that pressure on, man." Sam took him at his word and worked his belt off fast. “You got any medic training?"

"Keep 'em alive levels, yes, but not EMT levels. I'm Marc. Just tell me where you need extra hands."

"For now, just hold that on. Kaya, you just watch Marc and listen to him about that breathing, okay? Slower and calmer you breathe, easier this'll all be now and later. Don't suppose you know your blood type?"

Kaya hissed when Sam lifted her leg to get the belt under it, biting down on curses, then managed to say, "No idea. It's positive, I know. I usually get dinner firs—" She bit that word off, too, when the belt cut into her thigh.

Marc smiled at her. "I will personally come bring you coffee after this is over, okay? Come on. Try to get a breath."

Sam added, "And if his ears are delicate, mine aren't. Air Force medic. You curse all you want, Kaya. Teach me any new words later." He ran his hands carefully over her leg, nodded and pulled out his belt knife. "Sorry, but the pants are toast."

"Yeah, I know." She let her head drop back. "Damn it. I want to know how bad, but breathing is easier like this."

"Right now, your job is to keep breathing. Marc can tell you what it looks like if that'll help you."

Marc nodded. "Sure, gives me a chance to teach you some new words in Italian that'll have any grandmothers reaching for soap."

"Ready when you are, medic," came the call.

Sam looked over and realized he'd lucked out: the corporal hadn’t just cleared rubble behind him, she’d also rearranged some of it to give him a flat area for his patient and his medkit. The space blanket was already down and flat, and a big damn PFC was moving to Kaya's far side. "Perfect, Corporal. Thanks. Private, you ever moved a body flat?"

"No, sir, but I figure I can get above and below her hips if you can get her shoulders. That leaves the doc here to keep pressure on that and step back over the blanket. Your legs are long enough for that, right, Doc?"

Marc nodded. "No problem, Herangi. Work for you, Sam?"

"Let's do this," Sam agreed. “Kaya, you just yell all you want, okay? Let the pressure out, don't put it in your veins."

She nodded. "Marc—"

"Not leaving you," he said calmly. "I'll keep your leg as steady as I can, Kaya. Just keep breathing for us. We're gonna get all the rest of it for you. Just breathe and stay with me."

Private Herangi worked his arms under her with a nonverbal rumble of warning and apology, then lifted when Sam nodded. The three of them got her to the flat space fast and relatively smooth for never having worked together before.

Kaya still yelled, and Sam didn't blame her a damn bit.

Marc's hands were steady and tight on her leg. Sam said calmly, "Four coffees later. Herangi, finish getting that fabric off her leg, then your corporal can steal you back if someone needs you more." He pulled out a preloaded syringe and warned, "Kaya, pain med coming in now. Gonna burn for a second and then the world's going to take a few steps away. Just keep talking to Marc, okay? None of us are listening."

Marc took his hint immediately. "So, what were you doing before the building came down?"

"There was this…" Kaya hissed at the shot but held still. "This gorgeous blond. Should have seen him – well, okay, maybe I appreciated him more."

Marc grinned at her, a bright flash of joy despite the circumstances. "Hey, equal opportunity lech here. You talk to me about him, I'll tell you about my last boyfriend next. Gorgeous, huh?"

"Oh my god, I have never seen a shoulders to waist like that outside a comic book.” She sagged a little as the morphine started kicking in; damn her pulse was going way too fast, then. “Or some of the old propaganda posters of Captain America."

Corporal Aritza said almost casually, "Word is there was a guy working north of here in Captain America’s outfit. Maybe you should forget the face?"

"Seriously? Never saw his face, then." Kaya smiled for a second. "Sad, kind eyes on him, whoever he was. But oh my _god_ , those shoulders and that ass."

Sam swabbed off her leg to get some idea how big a piece of shrapnel he might be looking at. The entry cut did not make him happy when all he had was some saline. He glanced up, using a quick head motion to pull the corporal in. "You good with blood?" he asked quietly, listening absently as Marc cheerfully helped a patient lech over a man who probably wasn't really Captain America.

"No problems at all," Aritza said, keeping her own voice down.

Sam nodded and kept pulling out packs of quick-clot and gauze, fanning them out beneath his suture kit. That was already open and thank god he still stocked it with the extra materials he’d used as a PJ and hadn’t needed as much working EMT around his social worker degree. He’d been running through them today, but that was a problem that could wait. "Good. Get ready to hold this open for me. I've got to close things up fast when I pull that out." Sam had the retractor ready and cut as soon as the corporal’s hands were in place.

The metal came out too easily, all slick edges that cut through Sam's gloves and hands with weirdly blue highlights that he’d be seeing in nightmares later. He cursed in Afghani he'd never use around his parents, dropped the shrapnel and retractor on the space blanket, and kept working. Blood tests for him later with his skin now open, but at least he could reassure Kaya that _he_ was clean and she didn't need to worry.

Marc was holding the tourniquet with one hand, but his other hand came down on Kaya’s thigh to hold one side of the wound open. He never took his eyes off Kaya, however, and Sam could hear him steadily talking to her. Sam’s name dropped in periodically, but it was all soothing and rhythmic and Sam could ignore it to work.

He needed all his attention for her leg, too. He shoved gauze in, reaching for the medical grade superglue with the other hand. Aritza had it uncapped and handed it over smoothly, taking over the gauze to free a hand up for him. Sam squeezed the artery back together, said, “Pull the gauze.” The extra hand made all the difference; he got the glue on, the artery stabilized, and his hand free in half the time he’d have needed by himself.

Thank God. That’d still soaked a lot of gauze in even that faster time.

Sam breathed out -- slow and steady the way he would for a shot, for a launch, for a tracheotomy -- and let himself pay attention to the rest of the injury now that she wasn’t going to bleed out from that artery. He said quietly, “Marc, ease off on the belt in another minute,” and went back to work.

It took another ten, fifteen minutes for him to get her closed up with internal stitches and external, gauze and pressure bandage and the improvised splints Herangi found for him because Sam fucking well did not want her trying to use that leg _at all_ until pros with more time had looked her over again. But the color in her shin didn’t look half bad and when he looked up to see how her facial color was doing, Kaya was half-asleep, watching Marc and breathing with his count.

Aritza and Herangi were watching him, silent but alert for whatever he needed next, and their shoulders relaxed that little bit when Sam’s did. Sam nodded to them and Marc, sighed, and said, “Yeah. Done. And I’m buying the beers later, guys.”

Artiza just nodded. “Sure. 18 Delta?”

Sam grinned at her. “Wrong service, Corporal. 1 Tango 2 X-ray 1. PJ.”

Herangi grinned at her. “Still damn nice work. And now the corporal is buying a round too.” He’d been absently tidying up as Sam went, apparently. There was a small pile of used cotton, torn plastic, and paper wrappings in a bag in front of him, but Sam’s suture tools had gone into a plastic bag next to their roll, clearly sectioned out so they wouldn’t accidentally get thrown away.

Aritza shrugged. “Worth it. I’ll go get the National Guard stretcher team; she’s next out to medical now that you’re done.” She glanced at Herangi and said, “Stick with him, play extra hands. Start by closing up his cuts, Herangi. I’m going to get some more supplies and tell them we’re free for the next call.”

“Oh hell, yes. Tell them I need gauze, quick clot, more wrap, and damn it, I need more saline, tubing, and shunts.” Sam turned at Marc. “Thanks, man. If you hadn’t kept her so calm, this would have been uglier.”

Marc finally straightened up from crouching over their patient to kneel up and arch his back so far that his hands were on his heels to steady himself. He stayed there for a good ten seconds, saying, “Absolutely had to be done.” He settled back upright before stealing a spare scrap of trash paper from Herangi to scribble on. His name and number went onto it while Sam blew on the super glue patching up his hands, then hastily reassembled his gear. Herangi pinned the note to Kaya’s collar while Marc wrote the data for Sam and Herangi, too.

The stretcher bearers got there just as Aritza returned with a backpack with a red and white medical logo on it. Good timing too, because someone yelled, “Hey! Medic needed over here next!” just as Sam reached eagerly for the extra supplies.

Aritza was grabbing the space blanket and just said, “Go. We’ll be right behind you.”

Sam snagged his kit in one hand and the backpack in the other and jogged to the next patient. He already knew they’d back him up just fine.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'battle rattle' -- body armor, weapons, extra ammo, anything else military are packing as they go into battle.
> 
> PFC -- Private First Class.

**Author's Note:**

> Sam Wilson is, of course, Falcon from the MCU and soon to be the current Captain America there. Marc Scipio is an original character from Highlander. MCU fans, what you need to know is that Marc’s immortal (he gets his first death and becomes immortal pretty much in that first section). He'll look the same age for however many years he makes it until someone manages to cut his head off, may that be a few millennia. Marc is, like Sam, a serious people person. (Click [here](https://crack-van.dreamwidth.org/4745.html?style=mine#cutid1) to go to the Crackvan primer on Highlander; scroll down to ‘Definitions’ if you need the basics.)
> 
> Other notes added as I figure out what's needed. Probably at the bottom of the chapters.


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